My wife’s been known to sing all day
as her father did before, 
which might be how she learned. 
Nice enough to hear, I guess,
what’s stuck inside her head,
but drives me nuts sometimes
when all I want is a quiet place
where the words I try to write 
won’t blur inside my head
and might nearly mean what I pretend. 
Maybe this her own white noise so
she doesn’t have to hear me live alone 
inside my own, 
which drives her nuts enough
she finally has to go to bed.
 
She even sometimes sings in sleep
which is hard to understand.
But now I want to hear the song 
because, I figure, like a dream, 
this is what she really thinks
of me, or of our life, though I suppose
I could have asked.
But it doesn’t quite come clear
even when I draw so close
which might or might not 
be her fondest wish. 
Sing to me, I say, softly—not a demand.
And sharp as someone dead asleep
might ever say, she says:
Shush, for God’s sake. Would you just let me sing?